


Where Momma Hides the Cookies

by rooonil_waazlib



Series: The Sniper and the Playmaker [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, M/M, Multi, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4404620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooonil_waazlib/pseuds/rooonil_waazlib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, ever since Bucky’s been on the UNNY team, a guy named Steve Rogers has been on the Halverton team.  He’s captain this year, as Bucky is for UNNY.  They’ve faced each other three years in a row, now.  Bucky hates that guy.  He’s too perfect for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful [Young](http://buckywantsafucky.tumblr.com/) for the beta, the discussion about titles, and my incoherent yelling about a varsity hockey captains AU.
> 
> Find me [here](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!
> 
> And if you're wondering about the title..."'where momma hides the cookies,' a phrase popularized by announcer Rick Jeanneret" is the same as "'top shelf,' the upper area of the goal, just below the crossbar and above the goaltender's shoulders."

“ _Nat_ —really?  God, why _Barton_ , of all people?” Bucky yelps, dodging the roll of KT tape that she throws at him.  “Alright, alright—I’m going!  Barton, here’s hoping you’re better in the sack than between the posts!”  Cackling, he ducks out of the dorm room, leaving his best friend and her hookup to it.

The Back Bay tournament is pretty much the highlight of his year, and has been since his sophomore year, when he made the varsity hockey team at the University of Northern New York.  Every year, the top eight college hockey teams in the country travel out to Boston for this tournament, stay in the dorms at MIT, play tons of hockey, and have a ragingly good time.  That usually involves finding as many parties as possible and trying to avoid the other teams in order to avoid testosterone-fueled fistfights—more out of a desire not to get caught than a desire not to fight.

But it seems inevitable.  The thing is, ever since Bucky’s been on the UNNY team, a guy named Steve Rogers has been on the Halverton team.  He’s captain this year, as Bucky is for UNNY.  They’ve faced each other three years in a row, now.  Bucky hates that guy.  He’s too perfect for his own good.  And he’s mouthy and nasty and Bucky would be lying if he said that Rogers couldn’t throw a good insult or two.  Even a good punch, when it came down to it.

Three years in a row they’ve fought, circling each other, dropping gloves and helmets before darting forward.

Three years in a row they’ve fought, bloodied mouths and bruised skin, knuckles split open, the world spinning and cheering and spinning and cheering around them.

This is why he groans when he arrives in the cafeteria, fresh from seeing the naked ass of the Halverton goalie between the legs of UNNY’s PT, to make use of the 24-hour waffle iron.  Steve Rogers is there already, prying a perfect-looking golden brown waffle off the iron.

He must hear Bucky, because he turns and smirks, neatly flipping the waffle onto a plate and pouring a metric half-ton of maple syrup on top.  “You’re shit out of luck, Barnes,” he says, brushing past Bucky toward the cashier, “I took the last of the batter.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky snaps.

“You wish,” Rogers replies over his shoulder.  “Shouldn’t you be used to this by now?  You’re too slow on the ice, too.”

With a growl, Bucky rushes him, knocking him into the cash register.  Waffles, syrup, tiny packets of soy sauce and ketchup hit the floor along with the two of them.  Rogers snarls, elbowing Bucky until he backs off, flipping them, and they’re punching and flailing and muttering obscenities in each other’s faces and they’re both breathing hard by the time they’re pulled off each other by security.

It’s only once they’ve been deposited outside the cafeteria that either of them speaks.  “My waffle,” Rogers mumbles, turning to look in the window at the mess they’d made.  He looks positively forlorn, his full mouth pouting, and if Bucky didn’t know better he might feel sorry for the guy.

But he doesn’t.  He absolutely doesn’t.  This is his arch fucking enemy.  Bucky feels gingerly at the throbbing spot above his eye.  It’s tender, but it’s not bleeding.  From the corner of his eye, he can see Rogers sucking on his split lip.

God, Coach Pierce is going to kill him.

There’s a common room outside of the cafeteria, built for the dorm residents.  They’re all on spring break, right now, and it’s so late that the room is deserted.  Bucky flops down onto the longest, most comfortable sofa, pulling out his cell phone as he does so he can text Morita, who’s probably laying out new drills for tomorrow.  He glances up when Rogers follows him in, sitting down on one of the other couches and reaching for the nearest magazine.

“Following me now, Rogers?” Bucky sneers.  “You lookin’ for another scrap?”

“Oh, obviously,” Rogers says breezily, flicking through the copy of _Real Simple_ in his hands.  “Not like I can’t go back to my room, or anything.  Not like there aren’t two girls having a grand ol’ time in there, and I’m not welcome.  No—I’m totally following you.”

It takes Bucky a second to work through all the double negatives.  “Wait—there are two girls in your room?  Like—together?”

The look Rogers gives him over the top of the magazine is sort of like a disappointed teacher.  “That’s right.”

Bucky has to think about what he wants to say next.  He can’t think of anyone—from any of the teams—who might be those two girls, and it turns out he’s a filthy gossip.  Especially when Morita doesn’t text him back.  “Who are they?” he asks.

“None of your damn business, Barnes.”

Glaring at Rogers, Bucky throws a leg up over the back of the sofa.  “Barton’s in my room with our PT,” he admits.

“What, Romanoff?”  That seems to have piqued Rogers’ interest.  Clearly Bucky’s not the only gossip.  “That’s terrifying.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Rogers snorts, like Bucky’s indignation is ridiculous, like he wouldn’t be at Bucky’s throat if Bucky had bothered to say anything horrible about Barton.  “It means I wouldn’t want her legs wrapped around any part of me,” he says.  “I’m pretty sure she could crush my skull with those thighs.”

Well.  That’s actually probably true.  Bucky allows a reluctant laugh to fall from his mouth.  Rogers’ eyebrows tick upward.  “C’mon—who are these girls?  Everybody knows everybody here.  It’s gonna get out eventually.”

“Sure, but it ain’t gonna be me,” Rogers says.  “The last thing I need is to get murdered right at the start of Back Bay.”

Startled, Bucky laughs.  He thinks he can hear Rogers chuckling quietly, too.  Bucky dares to look at him for a second.  He’s reading, his eyes downcast, and this isn’t the first time Bucky’s noticed how long his eyelashes are, fanned out against his cheekbones.  Sometimes when they’re at each other’s throats, on ice or off, Bucky gets distracted by the light blue of his eyes, his lips—too red, too plush—parted, his breath hot on Bucky’s skin.  Usually it results in the loss of the upper hand.

This can’t go on.  He hates this guy.  Picking his phone up off his stomach, he sends a desperate text to Falsworth, then another to Gabe.  He needs to be somewhere else.  He needs to—he needs to not be here, in an empty room with Steve fucking Rogers, the both of them sexiled.  There’s clearly some kind of poison in this room, because Bucky does not laugh at Steve Rogers’ jokes and he does not think about if they were on the same couch and his head was in Steve Rogers’ lap and he _does not_ happen to notice when Rogers sits back in his seat, still holding the magazine in one hand as he adjusts the crotch of his jeans with the other.

He doesn’t.  He can’t be.

They’re quiet for a long time, the only sound in the room the occasional page flip in that magazine.  Bucky’s practically itching out of his skin.  He doesn’t know what he wants—to fight, to fuck, to sleep, to skate—but he needs some kind of buffer between him and the weird unknown that is Steve Rogers sitting quietly in the same room as him, neither of them punching each other.

Finally, he sends Natasha an SOS.  He hates to interrupt ( _no he doesn’t_ , a small part of him whispers, _it’s Barton_ ) but he can’t be here anymore.  He can’t and they have the first practice slot tomorrow morning and he’d told Gabe they’d run first and it’s almost 1am and he’s supposed to be up in five hours and _god_ , his mind is just running way too fast.  He’s desperate.

And because it’s Natasha, dear wonderful Natasha who gets him more than anyone in the whole world, it’s barely five minutes before his phone pings.  _Coast is clear, come on back._

He gets up and trots out of the room, ignoring the look Rogers casts at him as he goes.

It’s freezing in their room when he gets there, the window wide open to let in the frigid March air.  “Jesus _fuck_ ,” he mutters.  He’s pretty sure he can feel his balls shrinking up into the warmth of his body.  “Nat, holy shit.”

“Hey,” Natasha says, glaring at him.  “I’m considerate as fuck, okay?  So it didn’t smell like sex when you got back.”

Laughing, Bucky flops down on his bed, reaching behind his head to smash his pillow into a better shape.  “You’re into him, huh?” he asks.  He pulls the blanket over his chest and waits; when she doesn’t answer, he turns his head to look at her.  She’s just in her bra and panties, though that’s not unusual for either of them, and she’s chewing on the tip of her finger.  Even though she’s lying on her side facing him, she avoids his eyes.  He lets out a low whistle.  “Wow, Nat.”

“What was the SOS all about?” she asks instead of answering his not-question.

He turns to look back at the ceiling.  “Fuckin’ Rogers.”

“ _Bucky_ —really?  The tournament hasn’t even started yet!  Is that where you got that bruise?”

Sheepish, he chuckles a bit.  “He insulted me first.”  Crossing his arms over his chest, he swallows.  “He just—god, Nat, he just makes me so fucking mad.  He’s too perfect, you know?”

“What did he do?  After fighting you, I mean.”

Bucky blows his breath out through his mouth.  “He was…I mean, he wasn’t _nice_.  But he— _joked_ with me.  He wasn’t completely fucking awful.”

There’s a long pause.  Bucky steadfastly doesn’t look at his best friend; she’s good enough at reading him already, he doesn’t need to make it easier.  Finally, she snorts.  “You’re into him!” she exclaims when he looks over at her, half-laughing.  “God, Bucky—you’ve got a crush on him!”

It’s no use denying it.  He pulls his pillow out from under his head and covers his face with it.  Natasha’s laughter turns to cackling, and when he peeks, she’s lying on her back, kicking her legs in the air.  “I can’t believe you’re not freezing your fucking tits off,” he mutters.

“I’m Russian,” she reminds him, curling her tongue around a faked accent, but she does sit up and yank the window shut.  “There.  Happy now?”  He shrugs, closing his eyes under the pillow.

Her skin is freezing when she jumps on him, even through his t-shirt.  She settles herself, straddling his stomach, and yanks the pillow away from him.  “What is it about him?” she asks.  “Rogers.  Why him?”

“You’ve seen him, right?”  He tucks his hands behind his head and watches as Natasha hugs the pillow, grinning.  “Yeah, exactly.”

“That’s not it,” she says.  He picks his head up to look at her.  “No, I mean—it’s not that that doesn’t _help_.  But that’s not the whole reason you’re into him, is it?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Bucky asks.  He’s of half a mind to throw her onto the floor so he can curl up facing the wall.

The smile she gives him is downright predatory.  “You like the righteous ones.”  He raises his eyebrows.  “The only time Rogers ever fights you is when you’ve fouled another Hawk.  You’ve got a total hard-on for the ones who stick up for each other.”

“Bullshit.”

She shakes her head.  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but I don’t have a hard-on for you!” he protests, and now he does get his hands on her hips so he can push her off him.

Raising an eyebrow, she settles all of her weight on him.  “Only because you’re gay as the wind,” she says.  “Come on, quit lying.  I know it’s your number one turn-on.”  Clenching his jaw, he knows he’s going to lose this one.  “What’d he say?  While you were busy falling for him.”

He sighs.  “He got sexiled, too.  Only he wouldn’t tell me by who.”

“Really?  Who gives a shit?  It always leaks somehow.  This place is a cesspit for gossip.”

Nodding, he picks his arm up and props it behind his head again.  “Except I think one or both of the girls are still in the closet.”

“Oooh,” Natasha says, also nodding.  “Yeah, see, I told you.  It’s always the righteous ones.”  Finally she gets off him, taking the four steps to her bed and flopping down onto it.  “Steve Rogers.  You could do worse.”

He gives her his biggest grin.  “Yeah.  Could have picked Barton.”

Natasha shouts a laugh, leaping up and beating him with his own pillow over and over until he manages to wrench it from her.  “He’s straight, anyway,” she cries, turning away and flicking her hand dismissively at him.

“Nobody can resist this, straight or not,” he insists, rolling onto his side so he can put on a model pose and waving a hand at himself.

“Except Rogers,” Natasha manages between her giggles.

He lets a slow breath out through his nose.  “Except Rogers.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to [Young](http://buckywantsafucky.tumblr.com) and [Bee](http://lividlillies.tumblr.com) for the betas!
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com)

It’s way too fucking early when Bucky’s alarm goes off the next morning.  His phone is under his blanket, buzzing hard against his arm.  Automatically, he turns it off so it doesn’t wake Nat, then lies there for a minute, eyes shut, thinking about how terrible today’s going to be.

But he knows Gabe will be waiting for him, so after a minute or two he rolls out of bed and pulls on sweats and a hoodie.  He puts his phone on silent and leaves it on his pillow; it’ll just bounce around and distract him while they’re running.

He thinks he’s early when he walks into the lobby, but Gabe is there already, because he’s a fucking morning person.  He grins at Bucky, who scowls back and pulls his hood up as they head out the door.

They run in silence, down to the Charles and then along the banks.  It’s fucking frigid; their breath fogs in front of their faces and Bucky’s nose begins to run.  The sky is pink-grey, the sun about to rise.  Gabe tries to make conversation once or twice, but Bucky answers only in grunts, too exhausted and bitter to bother, and by the time they turn to head back to the dorms, he’s worked himself into a tight little knot of anguish and hatred.

Which is why he groans when he sees who’s jogging toward them: Steve goddamn fucking Rogers, bane of Bucky’s existence.  His lower lip is looking a bit swollen.  He can’t help the sneer that pulls at his mouth, can’t help it when Rogers glances at him and Bucky snaps, “What the fuck are _you_ looking at?”

Rogers’ mouth pulls into a snarl; Bucky slows down, bracing for a punch, but Gabe grabs his arm.  “Hey,” he says, yanking at Bucky and dragging him a few steps forward, “Let’s just keep going.  Come on, we’re almost back.  We’ve got practice in half an hour.  Bucky, man, let’s get out of here.”

Bucky growls, but he’s already going to be in trouble for the shiner he’s got, so he lets Gabe drag him off instead of turning back and beating Rogers’s face in when he hears him snort.

-

Coach Pierce doesn’t say anything about Bucky’s black eye, although he does give him a disapproving glare as Bucky shuffles out onto the ice.  It does nothing to improve Bucky’s mood, and, angry with himself, he chews hard on his mouthguard as he starts his warm-up.  He resolutely does not fucking think about Steve Rogers as he flicks his stick at the pucks scattered around the crease.

He doesn’t even make it through drills.  He’s working too hard, pushing too much, trying to make his brain go quiet, and on his fourteenth suicide he feels it: a popping in his upper right thigh as he pushes with that skate. It fucking _hurts_.  Immediately, he picks his foot up off the ice, turning and toeing his way over to the bench, where Natasha is leaning against the boards, watching.

Her eyes narrow at him as he skates nearer.  He flicks at his mouthguard with his tongue so it suctions off his teeth, then flips it over so it’s half out of his mouth, the other half between his cheek and his teeth.  “You’re pushing too hard,” Nat says, but she straightens up and opens the door on the boards for him so he can get up onto the bench.

Bucky sits, propping his stick on the boards, and takes the bottle of Gatorade that she passes him.  It’s her routine: anyone who comes to see her has to drink an entire bottle before she’ll let them tell her what’s wrong.  When they complain about having to pee too much, she just shrugs.  If you’re not healed when you leave her, she says, at least you’ll be hydrated.

While he drinks, he watches the team as they skate back and forth.  Pierce has got his whistle between his teeth, but he keeps glancing over at Bucky, his eyebrows drawn together.  Bucky’s not sure if it’s disapproval or worry or just plain confusion at this point.

Finally, he dumps the bottle into the bin at the end of the bench and nudges Nat, who’s gone back to watching the drills.  She turns her back to the ice and crosses her arms, jerking her chin at him.

He knows she’s going to know exactly what’s going on his head, so he looks down at his feet.  “Pulled something,” he says, drawing a line up the inside of his thigh.

Shaking her head, she gives him another Gatorade.  “Go in.  Get your gear off and start stretching.  I’ll be in in a bit.”

Bucky’s had to pee twice by the time Natasha walks into the locker room.  “This sucks,” he says, not coming up out of his stretch, right leg extended along the bench, his nose nearly touching his knee.

“You’re distracted,” Nat replies, putting a hand on his shoulder.  He straightens up.  “Floor.  Lie down.”

He does as he’s told, propping his hand under his head so he can watch as Natasha kneels between his legs.  “Ow,” he says when she guides his right leg in a circle.

“Where’s it hurt?”  He points to the inner part of his thigh, and she tuts at him.  “A groin pull, really?  You’re such a cliché, Barnes.”

Exhaling through gritted teeth, Bucky looks up at the ceiling.  “Saw Rogers while Gabe and I were running this morning,” he admits.

“Oh, yeah?  Anything fun happen?”

“I almost picked a fight.”  He lets out a whimper as her thumbs dig into the tendon at his crotch.  “Gabe dragged me off, but…god, Nat, why _him?_ ”

She shakes her head, kneeling up so she can lean her weight on him.  “Because you’re a masochist?” she suggests.  “Bucky, you can’t do this to yourself.”

“I know, I know, the team needs me.”

Blowing at a strand of hair that’s fallen down into her face, she meets his eyes with her dark ones.  “Fuck the team,” she says.  He picks his head up to stare at her.  “I mean it, Bucky, honestly.  The team’s going to be the least of your worries if you injure yourself for real.”

“This isn’t for real?” he asks, grimacing as she swivels his leg out, pushing on his knee so the pulled muscle stretches.  “ _Fuck_ —it feels pretty real.”

“You’ll be fine in a couple days,” Natasha says, finally easing off.  He puffs out a sigh.  “In the meantime, you won’t be practicing and I’m benching you for the next game.”

“Nat!  No, you can’t!”

She raises an eyebrow at him, and he shuts up, covering his face with his hands.  “Three days, then we’ll talk.”  After a second, she lays his leg back down.  “For now, have a shower, then head back to the dorm.  I’ll bring you a heating pad once practice ends.”

-

The one upside to Bucky’s overall boring day was the waffle he got to have for lunch.  Ever since, he’s been lying around watching Netflix with a heating pad on his crotch.  God, he’s itchy.  And sweaty.

Nat’s gone out with Clint, so it’s just Bucky hanging around, which isn’t helping.  He feels like he’s seen this episode of Orange is the New Black a million times.  He taps the spacebar on his laptop, pausing it.

Flipping tabs on his browser over to Facebook, he glares at the top post.  _Jacques Dernier has liked this photo._   It’s one of Stark’s, something from twenty minutes ago; Rogers and Sam Wilson joking around at one end of a beer pong table.  At the other end, a knot of three or four snapback-wearing frat boys face off.  It’s captioned, _they want the d(efensive line)_ , because Stark really has no taste.

Rogers looks really good in the picture, though.  The guy has the habit of constantly wearing workout gear, and he’s too damn big for all of it.  His UnderArmor shirt is stretched taut across his back, his waist too tiny where he leans against the table.  The picture’s cut off just below his waist, so Bucky doesn’t get much of a glimpse of his ass.

He sighs through his nose, and, cursing himself already because this is such a terrible idea, he clicks through to Rogers’ profile.  It’s pretty sparse, almost no information posted— _Halverton, class of ’16_ and _From Brooklyn, New York_ (and there’s a hometown surprise for Bucky)—and only a couple of pictures that Rogers has uploaded; but there are hundreds of pictures taken by others.

It’s weird, looking at all these pictures of Steve Rogers when he’s smiling.  Bucky’s used to seeing him scowl, used to the bared teeth of his grimace, so to see him grinning, laughing—it feels voyeuristic.  There are a couple of Rogers in his game day outfit, during pep rallies, collared shirt and tie under his jersey, looking wildly uncomfortable with the attention.  But those are followed by several photos from some picnic Rogers attended, looking totally at ease sitting cross-legged on a blanket next to the Halverton defensive coach, Peggy Carter.

For several long minutes Bucky stares at one of these pictures: Rogers, giant hulking muscly Rogers, is leaning sideways toward Carter, a crown of dandelions perched precariously on his blond hair, smiling so big that Bucky can’t help when the corners of his own mouth turn upward.  Rogers is clearly mid-laugh, his hand on Carter’s knee.  He looks so happy with her, it makes Bucky’s heart hurt.

Finally, Bucky manages to exit the browser; he shuts the laptop and tucks it under his bed, berating himself.  He’d known it was a bad idea to creep on Rogers.  He rolls onto his back, throwing one arm over his face and pushing the heating pad back into place with the other.

It’s still early, and Bucky hasn’t eaten dinner yet, but he doesn’t have the energy or the force of will to head down to the cafeteria.  There are snacks in his bag; he shuffles his way to the end of the bed and drags the suitcase closer so he doesn’t have to get up, and grabs three granola bars, which he eats lying down, being sure to brush the crumbs out of his bed and onto the floor.  Then, arm back over his face, he sips Gatorade until it’s dark enough to justify going to bed.

Unplugging the heating pad, he tosses it onto the floor and rolls over.  He lies there for several minutes before the feeling of filth overrides his self-pity.  He gets up, walking sort of bow-legged so that the skin of his balls unsticks from the skin of his leg, to have a shower.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come drool over fictional characters with me at [my Tumblr](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/)! Or just come talk to me. I need more friends!

Three days off the ice and Bucky’s losing his mind.  He needs to get his skates on.  Yesterday Nat had let him jog, and he’d been sitting on the bench at all the practices, but tonight’s their first game and he’s sure he’s ready.

That morning over breakfast Nat sits down across from him, passing over a second waffle drenched in melted butter.  “Coach wants you on the ice this morning,” she says.  He grins.  “Don’t get ahead of yourself.  It’s still my call whether you get to suit up tonight.”

“I’ll be fine,” he tells her.  “I’ll be ready to play tonight.  I’m ready to play _now_.”

She shakes her head, adding some of his chocolate milk to her Rice Krispies then holding the bottle toward his face.  “We’ll see how you do in practice.”

-

There’s something about skating hard onto the ice, blue and green and purple lights whizzing around the stadium, rock’n’roll screaming in his ears.  It makes goosebumps rise on his skin, his scalp tingling as he steals a puck out from under Gabe’s stick and shoots it in the direction of the net.  He can feel his stick bend in his hands, the wood warping like rubber as he puts it to work.

His crotch doesn’t even hurt.

He follows Falsworth, Gabe behind him, as they do a circuit around their zone.  Bucky balances on one foot, then the other, and as they turn right at the red line, he notices Rogers, doing his own circuit toward them.  He’d grit his teeth if he wasn’t wearing his mouthguard, so instead he just chews on it extra hard.  As they pass one another, Bucky’s stick, horizontal in his two hands, hits Rogers’.  He looks over his shoulder, his gaze turning to a glare, but Rogers doesn’t look back.  Even his posture is perfect, shoulders back, and Bucky thinks suddenly, madly, about getting those legs wrapped around him.

Christ, this is bad.

A puck comes skittering his way; only half-thinking about it, he winds up and shoots.  They don’t call him The Sniper for nothing; the puck slips through the small gap between Dum Dum’s glove and his shoulder, into the net.  He feels a bit better, but only a bit.

The game is about to start; Bucky heads toward the bench.  Pierce is looking at him.  Normally, Bucky would be on the first line, would be facing off, but the only reason he got to suit up at all was on the promise that he wouldn’t over-exert himself.  So he’d been booted to the third line.

Which is why it’s not until the third period that he and Rogers end up on the ice at the same time.  It’s 1-1.  Pierce puts a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck and leans down to say, “Finish it.”

So Bucky hops the boards onto the ice, bumping his glove against Gabe’s as he steps off.  He skates over to the faceoff, in the UNNY zone.  Stark gives him a terse nod as they both lean over the circle, the ref to Bucky’s left; Bucky breathes in, the puck falls, turning over and over itself, and the blade of his stick is down, scooping the puck away from Stark.

Something happens to him when he’s on the ice, sometimes, if every circumstance falls just right.  He doesn’t feel quite like himself; he doesn’t even feel quite human.  It’s as if his mind is separate from his body, and he stops knowing anything but the metallic ice taste of the rink, the scrape along the bottom of his feet as his skates carve paper-thin stripes off the ice, the stick an extension of his hands.  He can feel his teammates on the edge of his vision, mostly trying to keep the Halverton players from touching him, and he closes on Barton.

He has no idea how he misses it, but suddenly his whole body jerks to the right as a huge weight barrels into his left side.  Everything he’d stopped thinking about comes rushing back to him as his face rushes at the ice.  The crowd is yelling and he thinks he can hear Pierce yelling too; under it comes the whistle, a shriek against his brain, and— _ow_.  He stays down.

Dernier skates into his line of sight, and Bucky blinks at him, trying to decode what he’s saying under the roar of pain on his left.  It feels like forever before Nat kneels at his side; she puts a hand on his shoulder and he screws his face up.  “Arm,” he grits.  She pulls back a little and looks at him, then motions at Dernier.

Between the two of them, he manages to get to his feet.  He’s afraid to look down at his left side, absurdly wondering if his arm is even still there.  Every eye is on him, he knows, but it’s Rogers that he sees when he glances toward the bench, the angle of his eyebrows, his blue blue eyes watching as Bucky lets Natasha guide him toward the locker room doors, which are open and waiting.

If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d think Rogers looked—what?  Worried?  Guilty?

Nat passes him a Gatorade as he steps onto the rubber flooring.  “Think you can get your kit off on your own?” she asks.  He shakes his head.  “Alright.  Head in.  Game’s almost over; I’ll be in as soon as I can.”  He turns to go, but she calls his name and he turns back.  “At least get your helmet off, okay?  And your skates.  I’ll help you with the rest after the game.”

And he’d thought the pulled groin was bad.  By the time the team begins trailing into the locker room, too quiet to have won the game, Bucky’s helmet, skates, and socks are back in his gym bag, and he’s one-handedly tugging at the Velcro on his shinpads.  Every tug makes his whole body hurt, and he has to actually work to unclench his jaw when Nat arrives to help him.

Between them, they manage to get all his gear off, though he says some increasingly nasty things to her as pain shivers out from his shoulder.  She ignores him.  Finally, she throws his UnderArmor shirt in the direction of his bag and runs a hand over his shoulder, which is already impressively purple.

“What kind of pain?” she asks.

“The painful kind.”  He rests his head back against the locker he’s sitting against and sighs when Natasha gives him a Look.  “I don’t know, it’s sharp.  Stabby.”

Shaking her head, she picks up his arm, examining his face when he yelps.  “Think you’ve pinched a nerve,” she tells him.

“ _I’ve_ pinched a nerve?” he snarls.  “ _I_ didn’t pinch squat!  Who the fuck hit me?”

She looks away, and when he looks over her shoulder, the rest of the guys are very intent on undressing themselves and not looking at him.

“Jesus fucking— _Rogers_.”  He swipes at the empty Gatorade bottle next to him; it goes flying, bouncing off the wall and hitting the floor with a clatter.  Catching Dum Dum glancing at him from the corner of his eye, Bucky groans and tips his head back again.  “Christ.”

Nat reaches up and rubs a hand through his hair.  “For what it’s worth, he asked me to tell you he’s sorry,” she says.

“For what it’s worth?  It’s worth nothing, that fucking—that, that goddamn fucking _shithead_.”

Smiling at him, she shrugs a shoulder.  “He’s not so bad, actually,” she says.  “I kind of like him.”  When Bucky opens his mouth to speak, she waves him off.  “Go shower.  I’ll have ice and a sling for you when you get out.”

She turns away, but before she can walk too far, Bucky reaches out with his right hand and catches her wrist.  “Am I being an idiot?” he asks, quiet enough that nobody else can hear.  “Should I—I don’t know—should I be trying to forget Rogers even exists?”

Nat sits down next to him, lacing her fingers through his.  He’s sure he smells vile, but she never seems to mind.  She always insists she’s gone noseblind, spending so much time with smelly athletes.  “Really, I think you two would get along,” she replies.  “If you weren’t so intent on hating each other, I mean.  I think you’d like him.”  They sit there for a moment, quiet, and then she pats him on the knee and gets up.  “Come on, then.  The sooner you shower, the sooner we can head out.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, y'all know the drill by now. [Come and say hey to me on Tumblr!](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com) And of course big thanks to [Young](http://buckywantsafucky.tumblr.com)!

It’s almost noon when Bucky wakes up the next morning.  Natasha’s gone, probably off to practice.  He doesn’t usually sleep so late, but he’d had a hard time the night before finding a comfortable position to sleep in that wouldn’t hurt his shoulder, which has advanced from just pain to pain plus a numb stripe down the front part of his arm, all the way from his shoulder to the tip of his thumb.

Now, he’s starving.

The cafeteria is almost empty when he gets there, left arm in a sling.  He’s standing over the panini press when his mother calls.

“Alexander called me this morning,” she says by way of greeting; Bucky drops his head back and groans.  His mom hums.  “Who do I have to kill this time?”

“ _Mom_ ,” he mutters, squeezing the phone between his cheek and shoulder so he can open the panini press with his good hand and check inside.  Not done yet.  “Do you remember how hard it was to hide the body last time?  Do you?”

She chuckles, and he smiles a little.  “You know,” she says, and her voice has gone sort of thoughtful, “your father just bought a new wood chipper for the lakehouse.  That big old birch in the backyard has finally died, so he’s planning to take it down.  I’m sure we could use it on whoever it was that hit you so hard.”

It feels like he hasn’t smiled in days.  He might have Nat, and the team, and his sisters, but sometimes he thinks his best friend might be his mom.  She’s the best.  “You’re the best, Ma,” he tells her, “but really.  It was a clean hit.”

“We could use him as compost,” she continues.  “I was thinking, I’m a bit tired of my blue hydrangeas.  I hear human blood’s somewhat basic.  Pink hydrangeas, James, what do you think?”

He actually manages a laugh as he pulls his panini off the press.  “Yeah, Ma, great,” he replies.  “How do you know that?  About the blood?”

If he imagines hard enough, he can see her, getting up from her seat at the kitchen table, going to stand by the window and look down onto the street.  God, he misses home.  “You pick these things up, dear, in my line of work,” she says.  “Now, what do you think—that first patch, by the driveway?  Or should we bury him by the hammock?”

“Mom,” he interrupts.  Sometimes he gets kind of grossed out when she does this, especially when he’s eating.  As she blathers on, he tries again: “Mom.  Mother.  Freddie.  Winifred.  _Ma_ —I’m serious, it was a clean hit.  I had the puck.  I was going to score.  Squeaky.”

She lets out a forlorn sigh; he knuckles the side of the tray, sliding it further down the bar, and spoons himself some mac and cheese.  “Fine, alright, if you don’t want your mother protecting you, that’s fine,” she says.

“Ma, you know that’s not it,” he grumbles, sliding even further.  “I just—”  Rogers is standing by the cashier, looking at him with the same expression that he’d had on the ice the night before.  “Ma, I gotta go.  I’ll call you back later, okay?”  Hanging up, he drops his phone into his pocket, then pulls out his wallet and drops it on the tray so he can open it one-handed and get out his meal card.  “’Scuse,” he mutters as he shoulders past Rogers and pays.  Then he picks up his tray with his good hand, thumb on top, four fingers spread across the underside, and turns to find a seat.

Rogers scurries around in front of him and grabs his tray.  “Here, I can—” he says, trying to pull it from Bucky’s grasp.

“Fuck off,” Bucky snaps.

“No, look, it’s my fault that—that you’re, you know,” Rogers’ eyes trail over the sling and then back to Bucky’s face, “I should help.”

He looks so pretty like this, big blue eyes all earnest, his playoff beard really just a reddish-gold scruff along his strong jawline.  Bucky glares.  “I said, _fuck off_.”  He picks up his foot and kicks Rogers’ shin, not hard because the last thing he needs is for his panini to go flying, but not soft, either.

“Ow,” says Rogers, forehead crinkling.  “Look, Barnes—uh, James—just let me.  It’s my fault, I should help.”

“Don’t call me that.  And you know what?” Bucky snarls, tugging again on the tray.  His panini slides a little.  “You haven’t even apologized yet.  So until you do, just _fuck the fuck off_ , would you?”

Rogers blinks for a second.  Stupid long eyelashes.  Bucky looks back at his panini, which is going cool.  The mac and cheese is looking a bit sad and gluey.  “I’m sorry,” Rogers finally says, and his voice is so soft and quiet that Bucky looks up at his face, surprised.  Their eyes catch for a moment; he does look pretty contrite, chewing on the corner of his lip.  “I really am.  I thought—honestly, I thought you knew I was coming.”

Sneering, Bucky lets go of the tray, throwing up his hand in defeat while Rogers adjusts his grip.  “Whatever,” he mutters, and points toward a table by the window.  “I want to sit over there.”

He trails behind Rogers as they head over to the window; it’s not until Rogers actually sits down that Bucky pauses.  “Hey, no, what the fuck.  We’re not _friends_.”

Rogers looks up at him, stretching back and lacing his fingers behind his head.  “Why can’t we be?” he asks.

Bucky sits, stalling for a moment because he actually has no idea why they can’t be.  “Because—because you hate me,” he manages.  Rogers’ eyebrows tick up and Bucky picks up his panini, trying not to notice the way his shirt stretches tight across the broad expanse of his shoulders.  “And I hate you.  We hate each other.”

“Do we?”

Taking a huge bite of his panini, Bucky turns to look out the window while he chews.  Does he hate Rogers?  Well…no.  He hates having a crush on him, but that’s mostly because they’re _supposed_ to hate each other, ergo Rogers is unattainable.  Also there has never been any evidence that Rogers isn’t straight.  Ergo, unattainable.

But Bucky’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have a crush on someone he hated.

When he turns back, Rogers is still looking at him, waiting for an answer.  “I thought you hated me,” Bucky says.

The look Rogers gives him is enigmatic at best.  “Seems that way, doesn’t it?  When you never stop to have a chat,” he says.

“What…would we chat about?”

Rogers shrugs.  “We were almost chatting the other night,” he points out, and reaches into his pocket to pull out his ringing phone.  “We almost got there today, too, only I’ve got practice in a half hour.  Catch you later, James.”

“It’s Bucky,” Bucky says, but Rogers is already up and on his way.

Bucky’s too nonplussed to remember to check out Rogers’ ass as he goes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been commenting!! I'm so glad people are enjoying it but I'm super lazy so I haven't replied to anyone. But I am reading all your lovely messages and sitting over here grinning like a moron. :) <3

The thing about being injured— _really_ injured, as Bucky’s begun to realize—is that it’s profoundly boring.  Three mornings later, he lets Natasha drag him down to the gym, where she proceeds to spend almost an hour torturing him, though she calls it physio.

Then he goes for a run, a longer one than he usually would, and doesn’t turn around until he loops the Museum of Science.  He’s alone today; his thoughts are loud enough that he’d never hear anyone else speaking.

He runs by the cafeteria on his way back, picking up a to-go box of spaghetti, then heads up to the dorm he’s sharing with Nat.  She’s not there—probably off at practice with the rest of the guys—so he flops down on his bed, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes, to eat.  Idly, he flips through the welcome packet they’d received on the first day of the tournament.

Because of the way the round robin system works, the UNNY Commandoes don’t play again until tomorrow.  Tonight it’s the Halverton Hawks versus the Seabrooke Strike.  It’s because he’s bored—yes, bored, and it’s always better to know one’s opponents, isn’t it—that he decides to go to that game.  At least, that’s what he tells himself.

-

Bucky’s chewing on a hot dog, partway through the second intermission, when a heavy hand falls on his shoulder.  He looks up: Coach Pierce is folding his long limbs into the seat beside him.  Leaning over the cup holder and taking a sip of his soda, Bucky swallows back the food in his mouth.  “Hey, Coach,” he says.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Barnes,” Pierce says.  “I’m glad to see it.”

“Oh, well, you know…”  Bucky waves a hand at the sling he’s wearing.  He still can’t feel his thumb.  “Not a lot to do with only one arm.  Thought I’d check out the competition.”

Pierce gives him an almost-smile.  He does that a lot.  Bucky hates it.  “It’s good to see you’re getting your head back in the game.”  He gestures to the fading yellow-purple crescent over Bucky’s left eye.  “What is it about Rogers that always gets you so distracted?”

The hot dog tastes like glue in his mouth.  He takes another sip of soda.  “I don’t know, Coach,” he says.

“Did that thing on your face have anything to do with how hard he hit you the other night?”

“No, Coach.”  He’s surprised to find that he’s actually not lying about that.

“You’re sure?”

Crumpling up the paper that had held his hot dog, Bucky tosses the wad under his seat.  Lights are beginning to whiz around the stadium again, the two teams skating out onto the ice to warm up for the final period.  It’s 2-1, Hawks up.  “Pretty sure, Coach,” he says.  “Rogers apologized to me a couple of days ago.”

Pierce looks at him for several long seconds.  Bucky tries not to squirm.  “How’s your arm feeling?” he finally asks.

Bucky shrugs a shoulder—his right one, because shrugging his left one hurts too much.  “Hurts,” he says.  “And it’s numb, in parts.  Nat says that’s normal.”

“She told me you’re out until the numbness goes away.”  Pierce props a foot on the empty seat in front of him, leaning back in his seat and pulling at his suit jacket so it’s not stuck behind his back.  “Is it getting better?”

“I mean, it hurts less,” Bucky says.  He’s not really sure how to answer.  “The bruise is healing.  I—the numbness isn’t spreading, at least.  I guess.”

“Good, that’s good,” Pierce says.  He’s still surveying Bucky, his eyes slightly narrowed.  It’s the same look Bucky had received the day Pierce had offered him a scholarship four years ago when he’d still been in high school.  He’d been good enough for college, not good enough for the NHL.  Angry about that, his style of play began to slip: more fighting, less scoring.  That day, Pierce had told him he couldn’t go on like that, that his ego was getting in the way of his talent.

“James,” Pierce says, leaning forward again.  Bucky sits up a little straighter in his chair; if Coach is calling him by his first name, it’s time to really listen.  “You watch that ego of yours.”

-

That night, the Commandoes have their usual pre-game get-together.  It isn’t quite a party.  Actually, it isn’t a party at all; it’s tradition, a bunch of guys eating pizza, drinking beer, and watching old episodes of _Pretty Little Liars_ the night before a game.

Bucky snags a plate and a couple of slices of Hawaiian on his way into the dorm lounge, then wanders around a bit, trying to find a seat where he can put his plate down so he can eat.

He’s leaning over the coffee table, his mouth stuffed with just about as much pizza as he can manage, when Dum Dum falls into the seat next to his.  Bucky jerks his head in greeting.

“How’s it going?” Dum Dum asks, his eyes lingering on Bucky’s sling.  Bucky shrugs, still chewing.  “And…Rogers?  Has he said anything?”

Bucky nods.  “He apologized the other day.”

Making an impressed face, Dum Dum takes a sip of his beer.  “Y’know, the guy’s actually pretty decent.”  He scratches at his beard—while Bucky’s playoff beard is little more than patchy scruff along his jaw, Dum Dum looks pretty much like a lumberjack.  “He saved me from getting glassed in a bar fight one time.”

“Okay, but, like, why were you about to get glassed in a bar fight?”

Dum Dum grins.  “Ah, y’know, a bit of this, a bit of that,” he says.  “I may have gotten to dancing with someone’s girlfriend…he may have turned out to be a violent asshole…you know, the usual.”

“Jesus, Dugan,” Bucky chuckles, fiddling with the crust on his pizza so he can get it more securely into his hand.  “You’re gonna get yourself killed one day.  You know that, right?”

“Maybe you should get with Rogers,” he says.  “Then he’d be around a lot more to save me.”

His stomach twists as he laughs off Dugan’s comment.  “Gee, thanks, Dum Dum,” he manages.

Beside him, Gabe smacks his arm with the back of his hand.  “Sh, sh, we’re starting,” he says, pointing at the big TV in the corner.  A coffin is just appearing, part of the opening credits scene.

Bucky settles back, sips his beer, and tries to forget about Rogers for an evening. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thank you for all the lovely comments!
> 
> 2\. Thank you to [Young](http://buckywantsafucky.tumblr.com/) for the beta!
> 
> 3\. Come and [be my friend](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/)!

When Bucky and Natasha arrive at the Alpha Pi Kappa frat house, it’s already thumping.  Even from outside, they can see flashing lights in the windows.  Through the soles of his shoes, Bucky can feel the grass vibrating rhythmically.

“Christ,” he mutters.

Nat snorts.  “C’mon, it’ll be fun.  Rogers is in there,” she cajoles.  He glares at her until she hooks her left arm around his right.  “Maybe tonight you’ll manage to get his pants off.”

Dropping his head back, Bucky groans, but he lets her pull him into the house.  He’s not, all told, really a party person.  Still.  It does him good to get out sometimes, even if it’s just to remind himself of how much he dislikes loud music and a lot of people he doesn’t know.  Anyway, at least he knows people this time.

His calm bleeds away when they step inside.  Natasha is almost immediately waylaid by Clint Barton, who takes her hand and leads her off somewhere into the pulsing, gyrating crowd that’s taken over what looks like it might have once been a living room.  Bucky hesitates, watching as they disappear, Nat throwing one last wave over her shoulder at him.

Then, he’s alone.

For a second, he flounders, looking into the living room where everyone’s dancing.  A girl there is giving him eyes.  Before she can start prowling at him, he flees.

The kitchen, thank fuck, is quieter, and emptier.  More for something to do with his hands—hand, he corrects himself, because his left one is still in the stupid sling that’s starting to smell a little—than because he really wants it, he grabs a can of PBR and cracks it, leaning against the counter and letting his gaze wander out the window.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Bucky jumps out of his skin; how long has he been standing here, looking like a total dweeb?  Rogers grins at him when he turns.  “Sorry.  Thought you saw me coming.  Again,” he says, then seems to realize how distasteful that joke is.  His smile drops a little.  “How’s, uh, how’s your arm?”

“Better, some,” Bucky says, turning around so his back is against the counter.  He sips defensively at his beer.  “Thought you’d be on the dance floor with Carter.”

Rogers looks at him for a second, his head tipping to the side.  “Uh, Carter?”

“Yeah, you know,” Bucky waves a hand, “Carter.  Your defensive coach.  Dark hair, lipstick?  That ringing a bell?”

“Yeah, no, I know who you’re talking about,” Rogers says.  “Just—I mean—we’re not a couple, if that’s what you’re getting at.”  Bucky blinks at him until Rogers hikes a thumb over his shoulder.  “She’s on the dance floor, sure, but with, y’know, her—well, I don’t know if they’re, like, labeling it yet.  She’s with Angie.”

“Angie…?”

“Martinelli.  You know, our equipment manager.”  Bucky jerks a nod.  “Yeah.  Well.  They’re…a thing.  Me and Pegs—that was a long time ago.”  Bucky looks down at his beer.  Straight, then.  He lets a low breath out through his nose.  “So, um,” Rogers says, hopping up so he’s sitting on the counter.  He scratches at the back of his head, and Bucky wonders if he’s ever not cute.  “I mean, I guess you and Natasha, well, aren’t…aren’t, um…”

“You haven’t seen her and Barton?” Bucky asks, incredulous.  “They’re like two rabbits.”

Sheepishly, Rogers grins.  “Yeah, no, yeah, I’ve noticed.”  He tips his beer can back against his mouth, taking a long drink.  Bucky decidedly does not look at the long exposed line of his throat.  “I mean, that, plus I’ve—y’know, there are…rumors.  About—you.”

“What, you mean that I’m super duper queer?”

Rogers chokes.  It maybe makes Bucky’s night, just a little.  “Yeah, uh, yeah—so you’ve heard that one before.”  He wipes at the beer dripping down his chin.

Smirking, Bucky puts his beer down so he can get into a seat on the counter too.  “I mean, I started it,” he shrugs.

“You…?”

He waves a hand around.  “Well, technically, no.  The guy I hooked up with a couple years ago—he started it.”

The look on Rogers’ face suggests he’d never actually thought it might be true.  Bucky begins to laugh.  If he can’t have Rogers, well—he might as well get a laugh out of making him uncomfortable.  He drinks some more, watching Rogers as he traces the rim of his can.

“Sorry,” he finally mutters when Rogers still doesn’t seem to be computing properly several moments later.

“What?  No, it’s fine, it’s not—I’m not—I don’t, um, it’s not…” Rogers trails off, his face sort of pinched.  “It’s not a big deal.”

Bucky looks at him for a second.  He’s clearly lying.  “Sure.”  Slipping off the countertop, he chugs back the last of his beer and leaves the can next to an impressive stack of empties, and heads for the hall.  Maybe he’ll dance.  Maybe he’ll—

But Rogers is right on his tail, which is a pain in the goddamn ass.  He’s trying to say something, but Bucky’s blocking him out, and after a second, he doesn’t have to anyway; the yelling coming from the dance floor is doing it for him.

It’s pretty much an all-out brawl.  For half a second, Bucky hesitates, but Dugan’s right in the fray.  So is Falsworth.  In the corner, he can see Gabe, looking like he’s got a bad smell under his nose.  But when their eyes meet, Gabe twists his mouth for a moment, then puts one hand to his mouth to amplify the howl he lets out.  Then he puts down his beer and wades in.

Bucky follows suit.  The howling will attract the rest of the Commandoes; Bucky can only hope that instead of turning this into a riot, they decide to help out.  In the meantime, he gets his arm around the neck of the Strike’s captain, Brock Rumlow, who’s just about the biggest asshole Bucky’s ever met, and drags him back from Falsworth.  It’s a lot harder to do with one hand.  He has to put all of his weight into it.

And then, in a blur of blond, Rogers is there, yanking bodies away from one another.  He glares over his shoulder at Bucky, who’s still struggling to get Rumlow to calm down.  “You’re gonna make that arm worse,” Rogers shouts over the din.

Bucky ignores him.  Falsworth is bleeding; he can’t leave his boys in the lurch.  Finally, he gets Rumlow into the hall, where he wrestles him to the floor.  It feels like it takes forever, and there’s plenty of cursing and Bucky scrapes his right elbow along the carpet, but he manages to get Rumlow down.  “Stay down,” he snaps, and heads back in.

By the time he gets back into the living room, though, things seem to have mostly calmed down.  Someone has turned down the music, so it’s much quieter.  A couple of guys are still yelling at each other, but they’re being held back by their teammates.  Rogers is nursing a bloody nose.

Natasha wanders over to him.  “Okay, so you might have been right,” she says.  “This party may not have been the best idea.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow yeah oops sorry it's been so long!! Work's been...a thing. But! We are nearing the end! I have ~plans for chapters 8 (already written) and 9 (to be written)!!
> 
> Anyway, your comments give me life! And I would love for y'all to come and [visit me on Tumblr](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/) (by the way, read a lot of my short-form fanfic [here](http://imaginesteverogerss.tumblr.com/tagged/carmen))!
> 
> And, of course, thanks go to my beta [Young](http://buckywantsafucky.tumblr.com/). c:

Bucky puzzles over Rogers for several days.  He turns himself almost nocturnal, staring all night at the ceiling thinking about Rogers rather than sleeping.  Nat and he have turned the issue over and over again, looking at it from every possible angle, and come to no conclusion.

Because more than anything, Rogers has become an enigma.  His reaction to Bucky’s admission that he was queer is stacked on one side of the equation, haphazardly tacked on with their rivalry.  On the other side is a pile of every look Rogers gives him: the guilt scrawled on his face after Bucky’s injury; his eyebrows doing their thing when he’d apologized; his insistence that Bucky stay out of the fight at the APK frat; and the concentration as he’d helped patch up the rug burn Bucky’d gotten on his elbow wrestling Rumlow to the ground.  There’s also the fact that they’re almost on speaking terms, and the stares that Bucky feels on the back of his neck more often than not.

Most importantly, when Bucky had turned the other night to follow Natasha back to their dorm, Rogers had grabbed him back.  “Just—” he had said, “Just.  I don’t mind.  I really…I really don’t.”

Bucky hadn’t needed to ask to know what he was talking about.  But had he imagined the significance of the look on Rogers’ face when he said it?  The problem was—it had been dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp behind Rogers.  Maybe Bucky had seen it wrong, looked just to the left of Rogers’ eyes and dreamed seeing the extra little tilt of his head.  Maybe, in the days since the party, his mind had drawn that in.

He couldn’t be sure.  He couldn’t be sure of anything.

It feels almost like the world is continuing to turn while he stands in the same place, the earth sliding out from under him.  He lies in bed and stares at the ceiling, feeling the motion of the earth under him, and wonders if he wandered into some kind of alternate dimension, where he has a crush on Rogers and Rogers doesn’t hate him.  Where Rogers…maybe likes him.  Where Rogers, if Bucky is willing to allow himself to entertain that thought, may even reciprocate this weird crush.

But what is he supposed to do about that?

-

He’s still benched for the Commandoes’ next game.  The sling is gone, at least, but he watches the game from a few rows behind Dugan’s net, sips on a soda and tries not to look too devastated when the Strike win, 1-0.

Bucky joins his teammates in the locker room, but Pierce doesn’t make them sit through a lecture.  For several of them—including, maybe, Bucky, if the NHL doesn’t want him after this—this is the end of their hockey careers.  They will graduate in June and never lace up their skates again.

On their walk back to the dorm, Natasha hooks her arm through Bucky’s.  It’s quiet between them, and quiet on campus.  His breath fogs orange in front of his face, glowing in the light of the streetlamp.

“Fucking Rumlow,” Nat finally mutters.  Bucky hums in agreement.  “God, you’d think he could be a good sportsman, at least.  Who the fuck _gloats_ instead of shaking the losers’ hands?”

“Fucking Rumlow,” Bucky answers.

Natasha hums, and they walk on in silence.   It begins to snow, big, fat flakes drifting through the pools of orange light, and Bucky tucks his chin into the collar of his hoodie.  His brain turns over, and as Nat begins to say something, he interrupts: “I’m going to tell Rogers.”

Nat stops, her arm through his pulling him to a halt as well.  When he turns to her, she’s staring at him, her mouth a little bit open.  “What—you are?”

“I mean,” he manages, because he isn’t quite sure where that came from, “I—just, it’s not like I have a lot else to do for the next few days.  And…”  He turns again, like he’s going to find his words in the falling snow.  “I guess, I mean, it can’t hurt to tell him, right?  After this weekend I probably won’t ever see him again.”

Her arm squeezing his, Nat draws a little bit closer to him.  “Yeah,” she says.  “Okay.  That sounds like a good plan.  But how?”

-

Bucky stands outside of Rogers’ dorm room for a full ten minutes, wiping his palms on his jeans every few seconds and pacing, back and forth, back and forth, trying to decide if he should actually do this.  Finally, though, in a fit of bravery, he darts forward and knocks.  Too late to go back.

“It’s open,” a voice calls from inside.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky opens the door and steps in.  His stomach feels like it’s going to turn itself inside out.

Rogers is ironing.  The room is covered in dress shirts on hangers, mostly white but with a few bright colors: red, purple, green, and a garish gold-and-red thing that can’t possibly belong to anyone besides Tony goddamn Stark.  Hesitating in the doorway, Bucky looks around until Rogers looks up at him and puts aside the iron.

“Here, sit here,” Rogers says, picking up the red-and-gold monstrosity from one of the beds and hanging it in front of a plain white shirt on the closet door.  “How’s it going?  How’s your arm?  And that rug burn?”

Bucky blinks at him, shuffling over and sitting down.  For a second he can’t stop thinking, _this is Rogers’ bed, I’m sitting on Rogers’ bed, R O G E R S’  B E D_.  Then it occurs to him that it might be Sam Wilson’s bed, and he relaxes.  “’M fine,” he manages, propping his heels on the bedframe.  “Um.  There’s…a lot of shirts.  In here.  Y’know?”

Rogers snorts and picks up the iron again.  “Yeah, I know,” he says, thumbing a button.  The iron hisses and spouts a bit of steam as he presses it onto the shirt on his ironing board.  “The Hawks give them to me to do before big games.  For luck.”

“That’s, like, thirty shirts,” Bucky points out.

“I like ironing.”  Rogers shrugs, giving Bucky a sort of self-deprecating smile.  “Relaxes me.  Big game tomorrow night.”

Hugging his knees, Bucky thinks about that.  Tomorrow night is the final; Rogers and the Hawks will be playing the Strike.  “Shank ‘em,” Bucky says.  “Take the Strike to pieces, will you?  That fucking Rumlow deserves it.”

The corner of Rogers’ mouth tips up.  “Time was, you’d have told Rumlow to shank me.”  Bucky can’t stop staring at his eyelashes, two arcs fanned across his cheekbones as he focuses on the ironing board.  His belly hurts.  “Um, not to—not that it’s not okay for you to just, you know, just be here,” Rogers continues, “But just—was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

Feeling almost like he’s hyperventilating, Bucky flounders for a moment.  This is stupid.  This is so, so stupid.  He has no idea if Rogers likes him that way; he has no idea if Rogers even likes men.

Rogers is looking at him, half-concerned.  He has to say something.

“Um,” he manages, then wipes his hands on his jeans again, glances at the door.  He has to get out of here.  “After the game.  Let’s talk after the game.”  He flees.

The hallway feels just as claustrophobic.  He pretends not to hear Rogers’ concerned, “James?” as the door slams shut behind him. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! We're so near the end! Thank you all so much for holding on with me. I read all your comments even if I don't reply.
> 
> [My beta is here](http://buckywantsafucky.tumblr.com/) and [this is my Tumblr](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/)!

“You’re such a _dweeb_ ,” Natasha says, lounging back onto her bed and laughing aloud as he stuffs his pile of clothes back into his bag.  Bucky glowers at her.  It’s ten o’clock in the evening, only an hour since the game ended.  Rogers—okay, the Hawks—had won, 4-0, and the Commandoes are funding half of the afterparty in thanks.

He’s beginning to think that maybe he shouldn’t go.  He’s insanely nervous, and besides, he can’t find anything that might be appropriate to wear.  Maybe he should stay in, skip the afterparty, watch TV all night.  Avoid Rogers for the next several days until it’s time to head north, back to UNNY.  Be alone forever.

Sounds perfect.

He nudges at his bag with his toes, pushing it under the bed.  “I don’t think I’m going tonight,” he says, flopping down on his bed.  Seems like a good night to mope.

Natasha sits up, her hair falling all to one side of her head.  “Wrong,” she tells him, moving to sit next to him on his bed.  “You can’t back out now.  He’s expecting you to tell him something.”

“He’ll get over it,” Bucky mutters into his pillow.  “He’s probably already over it.  Tash, look, it’s a bad idea, okay?”

Leaning over, she pulls his duffle bag up onto her lap.  “Whatever you say, Bucky,” she agrees, digging through it and dropping Bucky’s favorite grey cowl-neck hoodie into his lap.  “You should go shower.  And put this on after.  You’ve got a hot date tonight.”

“ _Tash_.”

She grabs his face in her hands, pushing on his cheeks just enough that his lips go all puckered.  “Bucky.  I promise you.  It will be okay.  Now go get in the shower.”

-

Bucky’s stomach feels like it’s buzzing.  He can see Rogers, cackling and squirming, trying to shield himself as Tony Stark sprays him in the face with champagne.

The Commandoes are scattered around the Alpha Phi Kappa house, along with most of the rest of the tournament competitors.  The Strike are not a particularly well-liked team, so it’s little surprise that so many people are here celebrating their loss to the Hawks.

It’s been several minutes since Natasha has wandered off to get another drink.  Bucky wonders idly if she’s been waylaid by Barton.  Rogers is kneeling now next to a chair; on it stands Thor, who doesn’t, as far as Bucky can tell, have a last name.  Or maybe Thor is his last name.  Bucky’s not totally sure.  Regardless, the man is pouring a fourth can of beer into a very large funnel, and Rogers is holding the far end of the tube it’s attached to, waiting for the beer to pour through so he can chug it back.

Bucky watches for several seconds as Rogers, wide-eyed, drinks, beer dribbling from the corner of his mouth and down his throat.  His own beer has gone warm and flat.  He leaves it on the side table and heads for the exit.

Snow crunches under his feet as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.  He pulls his hood up, shoves his headphones into his ears and starts walking, his stomach in knots.

Everything sucks.

It’s visceral, physical, this self-loathing.  The base of his skull aches, and he hunches his shoulders against the urge to kick something.  He’s a chicken, a fucking chicken, and he deserves whatever hell Natasha gives him for this.  But.  He can’t do it.  He and Rogers don’t even get along; Rogers isn’t, by any indication, into men.  And tonight…tonight is a bad time for him to say anything, anyway, because Rogers is in there clearly having a great time and Bucky shouldn’t—can’t—interrupt that, not for this.

He kicks at a lump of snow, watching as it skitters along the packed-snow sidewalk.  There’s something so redundant about all this, about running away from Rogers.  He’s done it so many times these last couple of weeks.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he turns the corner and starts down the next block.  Suddenly, a body skids into his side, and he just manages to keep his feet, grabbing hold of the nearest lamppost, as the other person goes flying, sliding on their own momentum into the street.  Bucky yanks his headphones out, stuffing them in his pocket so he can yell at the person as they pick themselves up off the ground, but—they’re giggling.

He’s giggling.

Maybe if Bucky freezes, Rogers won’t notice that he’s there.  He watches as Rogers gets to his feet, swaying a little, watches as Rogers stumbles over to him and grabs the front of his hoodie.  “Wait,” Rogers says, slurs.  “Wait, wait, you can’t leave yet.”

“Rogers, you’re blitzkrieged.”

Rogers nods vigorously, wrapping Bucky’s hoodie string around his finger.  “Yeah,” he agrees.  “Yeah, I’m totally…super drunk.  But you can’t _go_.”

Letting his arm fall from around the lamppost, Bucky stays leaning against it.  Rogers’ mouth is red and wet, his cheeks pink from the freezing air.  He’s only in his collared shirt, navy blue against the gold scruff of his beard.  “Why can’t I?” Bucky asks.  He licks his lips and watches as Rogers does the same.

“Because—” Rogers pauses for a second to think, rocking back on his heels, “because.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.  This is such a fucking waste of his time.  “Whatever, Rogers,” he says, pulling his hoodie strings from Rogers’ grasp and brushing past him.  “Go back to APK and celebrate.  You deserve it.”

“But I,” comes the voice behind him.  “But you.”  He keeps walking.  “Wait.”

Rogers’ voice is so plaintive, so lost in the quiet dark, that Bucky’s feet stop.  He doesn’t turn, doesn’t have to.  Crunching footsteps make their way toward him and around until Rogers is there again, in his face.

His breath smells like beer.  “You—you said you had something to talk to me about,” he says.  Bucky swallows.  He doesn’t want to say it, can’t say it.  Rogers is rocking again, or swaying, and his eyes are big and blue and a little glazed and his lips are shiny and—

And he sways forward, one hand fisting into the front of Bucky’s hoodie, the other wrapping around his waist, pulling him forward, hard, against his warm solid body, and his mouth slides over Bucky’s and drags a shuddering gasp from him.

The noise seems to wake Rogers, and he stumbles back, letting go.  He’s breathing hard already, they both are.  “Sorry,” Rogers mutters.  “God, fuck, I’m so—sorry.  You didn’t even—you’re not, you—that was stupid, god, I—”

Bucky goes after him, grabbing his arm so he doesn’t fall into another snowbank, and also so he can pull him into another kiss.  This time, Rogers goes pliant and needy in a flash; one second he’s motionless, shocked, the next melting into him, pouring himself into Bucky’s mouth and getting his cold hands up under his hoodie to clench in his t-shirt.

His mouth opening against Rogers’, Bucky puts an arm around his waist and pulls him forward so they’re pressed together from mouth to knees.  Rogers shudders and then keeps shivering, and when Bucky pulls back his eyes are hazy and wanting.  If Bucky had thought he was pretty before, it’s nothing to how he looks now, kiss-bruised, desperate, flushed high on his cheekbones and down to his collar.

But he’s also shaking with cold, and Bucky’s not far behind.

“Let’s get somewhere warm,” he suggests.

Swallowing, Rogers nods.  “Yeah.  Whatever you—whatever you say.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I won't get another chance to post this for another several days, I decided I ought to just put everyone out of their misery and finish up now.
> 
> Thank you so so SO much to everyone who's commented, subscribed, bookmarked, kudosed, and sent me messages on Tumblr. You're witness to an incredible phenomenon -- me actually finishing a fic! All of your encouragements helped me get here.
> 
> Check out my [Tumblr](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/) and my [beta](http://buckywantsafucky.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> The next thing I'm working on is a single parent/nanny AU, so stay tuned if that interests you.
> 
> Oh, and I suppose I should mention that there is graphic sex in this chapter. In fact that's pretty much all this chapter is. Happy reading!

It’s sticky-hot when Bucky wakes.  He hesitates for a moment.  What happened last night—can’t have happened.  There’s no way, except…

Except he remembers Rogers pushing him down on the bed last night, climbing into his lap and kissing him until he was dizzy with it.  Except he remembers the burn in the pit of his belly as Rogers sucked at his ear, as he tugged on Bucky’s hair.  Except he remembers Rogers’ vehement protest when Bucky’d made him get some sleep, when Bucky’d said he was too drunk for them to have sex.

Except there’s an arm thrown over his stomach, warm breath against the skin of his neck.  Turning his head, he opens his eyes a little.  Rogers is there, asleep still, his head tucked up against Bucky’s shoulder so he can’t actually see his face.  Like Bucky, he’s shirtless, the sheet pushed down to their waists, and Bucky gets to spend several long seconds admiring the view.

Rogers’ back is long and muscular, white as milk.  There’s a set of freckles to the right of his spine, about halfway down his back, and before Bucky really thinks about it he reaches out and traces a line between them.

Making a soft noise of protest, Rogers squirms a little.  Bucky freezes.  This might still have been a terrible idea.  Okay, so they’ve gotten this far—but what does Bucky have to say to him?  What do they have in common?

But it’s too late to back out now; Rogers stretches a little, making another soft noise before a low groan.  He rolls onto his back, and Bucky watches as he breathes through his mouth for a long moment, his face twisted into a look that borders on agony.  “Fuck,” Rogers finally whispers, opening his eyes and tilting his head so he can look up at Bucky.  “Christ, fuck.  Why did you let me get so wasted last night?”

“ _Me?_ ”  It’s immediate, the way Bucky’s anger flares.  Rogers, god damnit.  “ _You_ got yourself totally stink-faced, Rogers.  In fact, if you want to blame someone, go find Thor.  He’s the one who funneled you.”

Rogers snorts and rolls back so he’s snuggled against Bucky.  “If I admit to that,” he says, his breath warm against Bucky’s nipple, “will you bring me breakfast in bed?”

Throwing his right arm briefly over his face, Bucky thinks about it for a minute.  Rogers is already in his bed.  Maybe he should try and make it work?  Heading down to the cafeteria would give him a chance to figure out what’s happening.  He might even call Nat.  Or his mother.

“Let me guess,” Bucky mutters, “Waffles?”

Rogers gives him a big wide grin.  Bucky gets up to find a shirt.

-

“Seriously, _what am I supposed to do?_ ” Bucky hisses into his phone, staring hard at the wafflemaker in the cafeteria.  He’d decided to call Natasha, because as much as he loves his mother, there are just some things that you don’t speak to your mom about.

Nat laughs, a low, sexual thing.  She’d stayed the night with Barton, and Bucky’s not quite sure they’re not having sex _right now_.  But since he needs her…well, whatever.  “You finish making those waffles,” she says.  “Then you bring them back to your room, and feed them to Rogers, and then—hopefully—replace that stick in your ass with his—”

“ _Nat!_   Are you fucking with me right now!  This is serious.  What am I supposed to _say_ to him?”

Laughing again, he can hear her shuffling around.  Maybe sex.  “You should have specified.  Look, Bucky, you now have confirmation that he actually likes you.  Just—go back there and face him.  I can’t predict what’s going to happen.”

Bucky sighs and flips the waffle out onto a plate.  Up until now, he might have actually thought she could have.  “Fine.  Fuck.  Fine.”

-

Rogers appears to have gone back to sleep when Bucky gets back.  He’s curled up on his side, his face stuffed into the pillow, and Bucky allows himself a second to imagine that he’s breathing in his scent on purpose.

Putting the plate of waffles on the bureau, Bucky shuffles over to sit on the bed.  After a moment, Rogers pulls his face out of the pillow to look at him.  “You’re back,” he says, and he’s so ridiculously cute that Bucky considers just leaning over and kissing him.

Slowly, Rogers sits up, leans back on his hands and tips his head, staring at Bucky.  “Your, um, your waffles,” Bucky says, pointing at the plate on the bureau.

Grinning at him, Rogers tips forward, gets a hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, and kisses him.  It’s all Bucky can do not to give in, fall into Rogers and never resurface.  But…

He pulls back, blushing, and looks down.  Rogers’ fingers slip up into his hair.  “What?” Rogers asks, quiet.

“Um,” Bucky says.  God, this is awful.  He can feel Rogers’ eyes on him, his fingers in his hair, soothing.  “What’s—what’s going on, here?  Like—last night—and now—and…just.  We’re supposed to hate each other, not—you know, not end up here.  Like this.”

He’s caught completely off-guard when he feels Rogers kiss the top of his head.  “Who said we hate each other?” he asks, his voice low.  Bucky looks up.  “Well, besides you.”  For a second, Bucky hesitates, watching as Rogers watches him.  “Look, James—”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“My friends call me Bucky,” he says.

Rogers’ mouth pulls into a grin.  “Bucky.  I never hated you.”  Bucky thinks about saying something, but he can’t think of a single one that might be coherent.  “I’m still kind of, I mean, I’m not _in_ , necessarily, but I’m not really… _out_ , either.  You know?”  Bucky knows.  It’s not like he parades around yelling, _I’m queer!_ at every person he meets.  He nods.  “So.  Until the other night, at that party.  When you told me…”  Rogers shrugs a shoulder.  “I kept my distance.  You’re…” he squints at Bucky, one side of his mouth tipping up in a wry smirk.  “You’re, like, completely my type.  Did you know that?  It just—it was just so much easier to stay away.”

Bucky can’t think of a single thing to say.  The bridge of Rogers’ nose is scattered with tiny light freckles, and this close up, the blue of his eyes is flecked with near-white shards.  His fingers in Bucky’s hair continue to stroke his scalp; after several seconds Bucky breathes out, and Rogers, taking it for the signal that it is, leans in to kiss him again.

For a minute their kiss is almost chaste, their mouths just brushing against one another; then Bucky tilts his head a little, and suddenly Rogers’ tongue is in his mouth, and he can’t think of anything except crawling into him, curling up there and never leaving.  Bucky twists, getting his legs up under him so he can shuffle closer.

Rogers lets out a low, possessive moan, one hand falling to Bucky’s hip, the other climbing up under his shirt, tracing over the ticklish part of Bucky’s belly.  He mewls, squirms, and after a second Rogers laughs a little and slips his hand further up, up Bucky’s chest until his fingers brush over his nipple.

It feels like Bucky’s on fire, like Rogers is a magnet and he’s scrap metal.  He crawls nearer, getting a leg over Rogers’ waist so he can settle down in his lap.  Rogers’ big hands squeeze his hips, then he sits back a little, pulling until Bucky gets the picture and takes his shirt off.

Immediately, Rogers leans in again, getting his mouth on Bucky’s collarbone and sucking a mark there.  “Fuck,” Bucky mumbles, getting both hands into Rogers’ hair so he can drag him up into another kiss.  Rogers drags his fingers up and then back down Bucky’s back, stretching over his ass and squeezing, pulling him by the hips into a slow gyrating motion until they’re both gasping, hard against each other through the sheet.

Bucky continues to shift as Rogers lets go of one hip, his hand sliding around and back until he can rub, gently, against the seam of Bucky’s sweats.  Burying his face in Rogers’ shoulder, Bucky groans aloud, his hips stuttering so he can push his ass back against Rogers’ hand.  “Fuck, oh— _Jesus_ ,” he manages, “ _Rogers_.”

Laughing, Rogers breathes hot into Bucky’s ear.  “If I’m calling you Bucky now, you get to call me Steve,” he pants, licking at the sweaty spot behind Bucky’s ear.

“Christ.”  Bucky bites at Rogers’ skin, leaning his weight more heavily against his chest.  “Steve, c’mon, _please_.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, hooking his arm around Bucky’s thigh and pivoting, pulling at the same time so that suddenly Bucky’s on his back on the mattress, Steve above him.  “Yeah, that’s better.”

Desperate now, Bucky wraps arms and legs around him, dragging him down until they’re kissing again, until Steve’s body is heavy atop his, until he’s grinding down on Bucky.

Everything inside Bucky is liquid, each motion Steve makes sloshing him around until he’s nothing but agitated hot water, boiling over.  He scratches at Steve’s hips, pushing at the elastic of his boxer-briefs—something Bucky hadn’t, until just now, realized was all Steve was wearing.

“I want,” Bucky tries, then arches as Steve’s hand cups his crotch and his mouth sucks at his nipple, losing the thread of what he’s trying to say.  “I—want—shit, Rogers, Steve, _oh_.”

Setting his chin on Bucky’s chest, Rogers looks up at him through those fucking eyelashes.  "Tell me,” he purrs.  Bucky lets his hand graze over Steve’s face, whining high through his nose as Steve takes his thumb into his mouth and sucks.

He shuts his eyes so that he can at least eliminate that stimulation.  Rogers is obscene, red mouth wrapped around his thumb, hair messy, cheeks pink.  After a second, he manages to collect his thoughts.  “I want you to fuck me.”

Now Rogers moans, and Bucky gets his eyes open in time to watch as he drops his thumb and sits up, shuffling forward until his groin is pressed against Bucky’s ass.  Bucky’s hand falls to Rogers’ knee against his hip, wriggling a little so he can feel his erection.  “Jesus, yeah, let’s do that,” Steve agrees.

Bucky sits up again, leaning over so he can pull his bag out from under the bed.  He’s got a box of condoms in there, somewhere, and some lube.  Somewhere.  The question is, where?  Finally he grabs the whole thing and tips it over, tossing the contents out onto the floor.  He crows, scooping up the box and the tube and throwing them at Rogers as he sits back up.

Kissing him, Rogers pushes him back until he’s lying down once more.  He picks up Bucky’s hands and guides them up above his head, wrapping his fingers around the headboard.  “No moving,” he orders, and Bucky shudders at the velvet in his voice, and doesn’t even think about letting go.

Steve kisses his way down Bucky’s stomach, pausing for a long second to lick at the inside of his belly button.  Bucky wraps a leg around his shoulders and moans, shifting his hips restlessly.  Rogers grabs him and holds him down, smirking up as his long fingers drag at the waist of his pants.  He pulls them down just past Bucky’s erection, and his hand slides over and around the base of his cock.

Trying to kill the urge to reach down and push Rogers’ head to exactly where he wants it, Bucky squeezes harder at the headboard.  His shoulder twinges and he cries out, letting go so he can shake his tingling hand out.

“You alright?” Rogers asks.  Bucky can’t look down at him, can’t look and see that mouth that near his dick.  He nods, eyes shut, though his arm is still stinging.  There’s shuffling, and he feels Steve’s fingers slide up his arm.  “Open your eyes.”

He watches as Rogers trails his fingertips all the way up his arm to his hand, watches as their fingers knot together without him really thinking about it.  Then he turns his eyes back to Rogers.

Sitting up, Rogers leans over him, kissing him on the mouth and then moving down and left to kiss the joint of Bucky’s shoulder, his mouth opening, his tongue tracing the line of Bucky’s bicep.

Bucky cups Steve’s face in his other hand, guiding him back so they’re kissing again.  He puts his feet flat on the mattress so his knees are bent, trying not to squirm as Steve’s hand wanders down his body to prepare him.  It seems like no time at all before he’s arching his back, moaning as Steve presses into him.  His liquid insides slosh around, blinding him for a second and he holds on tight as Steve pulls back and thrusts in again, slow.

He’s there, surrounding Bucky, inside him and outside him and kissing him and stroking him and it’s all Bucky can do to cling onto the fingers between his.  Steve nips at him, hot breath spilling over Bucky’s skin, and Bucky turns his face to him until their mouths align, until their breaths combine and he isn’t sure where he ends and Steve begins.

There’s a roaring in his ears when he comes, every muscle in his body coiling tight around Steve Rogers’ being.  When consciousness returns, Rogers’ whole weight is on him, his panting breath in his ear.  Bucky turns his head a little, pressing his nose against the scruff on Rogers’ cheek.

Rogers hums, the vibration of his voice making Bucky shiver.  “You’re,” Steve mumbles, though it seems he’s not inclined to finish his sentence.

Still, Bucky knows what he means.  He nods a little, tightening his hold on him.  “Yeah,” he says.  “You too.”


End file.
